[FRAME ONE]

You called, asked me whether I wanted to have dinner with you. You said you wanted to celebrate something. I picked you up at your office, a thirty‐minute drive from mine. The evening air was thick when you stepped out of your building. You were seven minutes late, slightly breathless, tucking your hair behind your ear.

The Italian place was quiet for a Friday. Wine glasses clinked, shadows danced on white tablecloths, and the owner’s grey cat watched us from its usual spot by the window. Our knees touched under the small table while you told me about a book you would never finish reading. Something parallel universes and how time wasn’t really linear. I watched the way your fingers traced the rim of your wine glass, leaving prints that disappeared like secrets.

[FRAME TWO]

The drive back was filled with comfortable silence until we reached your building. You didn’t move to get out. Instead, you stared at your windows, dark against the night sky. “My place feels too quiet lately”, you said, fingers playing with the strap of your bag. Your hand reached inside, searching for something, then stopped halfway. The streetlight above us flickered, catching the hesitation in your expression. “I don’t want to go home yet”, you whispered, almost to yourself.

“We could go to my place” I said, like an afterthought, though we both knew it wasn’t. You looked at me then, really looked at me, as if you had seen this moment coming from miles away. Your fingers found mine across the center console, and you nodded.

Just once. Just enough.

[FRAME THREE]

Your eyes mapped the geography of my organized chaos, and I saw my apartment through your gaze. Negative sheets spread across my desk, empty film canisters pilled up in a cardboard box and a half-empty coffee mug from three days ago. Books stacked like building blocks beside my bed. You didn’t comment on the mess; you simply trailed your fingers across my negative sheet.

The room felt smaller with you in it. You tiptoed to reach my face — I had never noticed how much shorter you were without your office heels. Then came a kiss. Sweet as watermelon, warm as sunset.

The taste of wine still lingered on your tongue.

[FRAME FOUR]

Your blouse fell quietly to the floor beside my bed. In the darkness of my room, I could sense your soft, delicate figure. I asked if you wanted to stop, and you answered by pressing your lips against mine, with your hands pulling me closer. There was a gentleness in the way your fingers traced their way across my shoulders.

A small scar below your rib cage caught the streetlight filtering through my blinds. Your hands shook slightly as they moved across my skin, and I wondered if you were as nervous as I was. Some moments were meant to stay unspoken. Like how your fingers quivered. Like the way you held your breath.

[FRAME FIVE]

Strange how naked felt like the easiest part. It was everything else that made us tremble.

[FRAME SIX]

I realized you never had a good night’s sleep. Your body twitched beside me and your fingers clutched the sheets. In the blue darkness, I watched your face contort against whatever haunted your dreams. As if your past was a regular guest that pays you a visit every night, sitting at the edge of the bed, leaving impressions only you can see.

I held your hand and whispered that everything’s gonna be okay. The lie tasted familiar on my tongue. You squeezed back unconsciously, and for a moment, your face softened as if you believed me.

[FRAME SEVEN]

In the silence between breaths, we both knew something we were afraid to admit: You, that you might stay. Me, that I wanted you to. Us, that there might be an us.

Some people collect broken things. Some people are the broken things. I’m not sure which one of us is which.

[FRAME EIGHT]

You’re gone, but your presence lingers. A long dark hair curls on my pillowcase. The faint trace of your perfume clings in my sheets. A coffee mug on my desk with the ghost of your lipstick on its rim: coral pink, slightly smudged. This morning feels cold and hollow.

You are a shattered vase filled with withered roses. And as I try to piece together the fragments of you left behind, I realize: the tighter I hold these memories, the more distant they feel.

There’s a pattern to how my eyes work. When I’m not interested in a date, I’ve learned to craft an illusion of attention: speaking more than necessary, gesturing with my hands to draw focus away from my wandering gaze. The room becomes my refuge: light fixtures casting circles of warmth, exposed beams stretching overhead, the condensation rolling down my water glass. I find solace in anything but direct eye contact, filling the air with words and movements. Sometimes I wonder if they notice, these women whose eyes I can’t meet.

I was ten minutes early to Emilia. You know, that Italian place next to Blanco Coffee in Permata Hijau. I used to work at their Jogja branch as a barista during uni. Different city, same coffee beans, same ambience. Sometimes I imagine being in Blanco with its calm atmosphere whenever I need to be deeply focused on something important. Tonight, the familiar scent of coffee drifted through the shared wall, but for once, it wasn’t my destination.

She walked in at 7:04. Four minutes late, but who’s counting? I caught her eyes before anything else. Eyes that smiled before her lips did. God, she was beautiful. She wore this burgundy blouse that somehow made her skin glow, though I wouldn’t fully appreciate that yet. I was too busy studying the menu while waiting.

We started with crostini prosciutto and truffle arancini, paired with a bottle of slightly chilled Montepulciano. She opened the conversation with how Jakarta’s sunsets have been getting prettier lately. “I had to stop several times to take pictures of the sunset”, she said. Maybe that’s why she was a little bit late. I totally understand. Today’s sunset was pretty.

While she munched her part of crostini she talked about this hidden jazz cafe she discovered in Kemang. She described it as a “sanctuary”. “Let’s go there”, I said. “ It’s closed, and their instagram account seems inactive”, she replied. “We’ll find another place”, I assured.

Then I told her about my scuba diving experience in Nusa Penida. The moment of panic when I went against strong current, how time seems to move differently underwater. Her eyes lit up. She started telling me about her recent trip to Lombok, how she really wanted to try scuba diving but she was afraid of going deep in the water. “I ended up spending hours just laying on the beach instead” she said, “watching the waves meet the shore. There’s something about the repetition of it. It’s like breathing”.

That’s when it happened. My eyes found hers, and they stayed there.

Brown. But not just brown. In the warm restaurant lighting, I could see rings of honey-gold circling her pupils, fading into deeper amber at the edges. Like coffee crema swirling into espresso. Like the gradient of sky at dusk.

The pappardelle beef ragu arrived alongside the Margherita pizza and arugula burrata salad. She twirled perfect spirals of pasta while telling me about this book she just finished. She leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper when dissecting the absurdity of the plot, then threw her head back laughing at the male character’s flaws. Her theories about the author’s intentions spilled out between sips of wine, fingers tracing patterns on the tablecloth as she connected the dots.

We clinked our glasses once again. The wine paired perfectly with everything, including our conversation. She talked about her dreams, her vulnerabilities. That she’s afraid of being too much and not enough at the same time. That sometimes she feels like she’s running out of time to become the person she wants to be. That she worries her practical side might someday silence her adventurous one.

Is it too early to talk about something more personal?
Well, I don’t know…
Probably.

We split the tiramisu and pistachio cannoli for dessert. She had a small smudge of powdered sugar just below the right corner of her lips. I wanted to tell her. I didn’t. Some imperfections I want to keep for myself.

Two hours had passed. I hadn’t noticed time slipping away, too absorbed in her stories. She talked about this, and then talked about that, and many other things. My ears were all hers, drinking in every word while my eyes stayed fixed on those eyes, calm pools of amber.

Here, in Emilia, I found the right pair of eyes to get lost in.

This is a long overdue apology. A ghost itself, haunting me for 365 days, drifting between what was and what could have been. One year of silence, of shadows.

I remember you as something delicate and pure. The sweetest girl I have ever met. You were never meant to be a footnote in my careless narrative, never meant to be left suspended in the liminal space between almost and never.

Your eyes, they were full of possibility, unbridled hope, looking at me like I was something extraordinary when I knew I was anything but. I was a storm you didn’t see coming. A silence that would consume your tender expectations. I left without explanation, without the courtesy of a proper goodbye. Just a ghost, slipping between the margins of what we could have been.

I was simply cruel. My silence was a violence. A wound I carved into your tender heart, believing you would understand the unspoken rules of a game you never agreed to play. That message you sent months after I disappeared —God, it shattered me. Your raw vulnerability laid bare. I realized then that for you, this was never a game. For you, this was a possibility of something real, something sacred.

I should have given you closure. I should have told you definitively. Yes or no, stay or go. Instead, I chose the coward’s path, leaving you hanging in an endless maybe. Your heart trembling like a leaf in an uncertain wind.

I’m sorry, Clare. I’m truly sorry. Not just with words, but with the heavy weight of understanding the damage I’ve caused. Sorry for treating your heart like a disposable thing, when you deserved to be held, to be certain, to be chosen.

You thanked me for finding you before. But the truth is, you were the one who saw me. Truly saw me. When no one else did.

“It fascinates me that every time we hang out, you always seem so happy.”

“I am happy. What’s wrong with that? Aren’t you happy?”

“It’s enjoyable.”

“So, you’re not happy?”

“Uhmm… Not really.”

“You never feel happy every time we go on a date?”

”…”

“Ouch. That hurts.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know. It’s just, I thought you would feel the same as I do. You know, happy.”

“I enjoy our dates.”

“But you’re not happy.”

“Does it really matter? What’s important to me is that you’re having fun, that you smile. I like seeing you smile. I like seeing you happy.”

“But you’re not happy.”

“As I said before, I do enjoy our time together. But for me, it’s not about my happiness.”

“You’re selfish, you know that, right?”

“What are you getting at? You said that you’re happy. Is that not enough?”

“But I want you to feel happy like I am. Why don’t you let me know that you’re not happy? Why do you always think about me? Why don’t you, for once, think about yourself?”

“Listen to me. I care about you. I want to make you happy. I don’t really care whether I feel happy or not. It’s always about you.”

“That’s so selfish of you! What’s the point of me feeling happy if you are not?”

“As I said, I enjoyed it.”

“That’s not helping at all.”

“Sorry…”

Ten months ago was the last time we met. I picked you up at the station, and we went to my friend’s wedding. I had asked you beforehand to accompany me to the event. Honestly, I didn’t really care about the wedding; I just needed a solid reason to see you again after such a long, long time. You were beautiful that day, almost unchanged from ten years ago. The wedding was a blur, but your presence was all that mattered.

You know I rarely come back home, so this was probably my only chance to meet you, and I didn’t want to waste it. So I offered to grab some coffee despite the heat that afternoon. The café was cozy, with sunlight streaming through the windows. With a double shot iced latte in your hand and a kiwi juice in mine, we started catching up on each other’s lives. I wasn’t really paying attention to our conversation; all I could focus on was your beautiful eyes. When the afternoon light touched your brown eyes, I saw sparks, like a starry night. I could easily get lost in those mesmerizing eyes, feeling like I was being drawn into a deep pool of warmth with every glance. It’s funny, every time you caught me staring, you were the one who blushed.

Reflecting on that day, I realize there are many things we need to work on, like getting to know each other once more. All these years, our images of each other have remained frozen in time, and we need to update them, don’t you think? Even though the image of you in my mind is from five to ten years ago, I know life has happened to you, shaping you into the strong-willed, compassionate person you are now.

I admire how you see beauty in everyone. You are kind, compassionate, and committed to being a good person. Your laughter is contagious; you brighten any room, even on your bad days. You love deeply and make sure the other person knows it. You surround people with your warmth and affection, and they cannot help but adore you.

I always tell other people that I’m not ready for certain things. But for you? If you wanted it right here, right now, I would be ready. You are probably the only person I feel certain about. No ifs, buts, or maybes. Just a straight yes.

Sometimes in my sleepless nights, I talk to God about you, telling Him that I’ve always struggled to make sense of it all. But loving you, even if only for a fleeting chapter of our lives, has made my impermanence on earth feel worthwhile. So, if I ever reach the point where I will cease to exist, I will close my eyes knowing that I lived well, that I had lived within your grace.

I hope your playlist shuffles just the right way, playing your favorite songs. I hope your dinners always taste delicious, no matter what you eat, bringing you warm and comfort. I hope your double shot iced vanilla latte is always the perfect balance of bitterness and sweetness to keep you awake during those long shifts at the hospital. I hope you find meaning, purpose, and joy so that you never again doubt your place in this world. I hope you find the courage to always embrace life and see what it has in store for you. And I hope you are endlessly loved, adored, and celebrated, for both your accomplishments and the things you may not be proud of. I hope life treats you kindly, like those beautiful eyes of yours.

P.S. hbd, stubborn taurus!

but i ate them all

happy birthday to you

y

feliz cumpleaños para mí

p.s. i still hate you but this tiramisu tastes good.

Valentine’s day is when the thought
of killing myself popped up
while riding back home

Valentine’s day is when I imagine
I have a small lovely family
beautiful loving wife and two kids

Valentine’s day is when I decided
to write a note to my wife and kids
saying I am sorry for leaving

Valentine’s day is when I buy a car
just to park it somewhere quiet
in the middle of the night
so I can sleep in it
after burning a small pot of charcoals

Valentine’s day is when yearning and longing
for people in my life to call
but the silent is so loud
it make me want to rip my ears off

Valentine’s day is the day when I will leave

Happy valentine’s day, doc!